February 23, 2010

Macbeth

Posted in poems tagged , , , , , , , , , , at 5:08 am by Mark

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hands?”

Macbeth

Coughing copper, ten crusted fingers tear
Hair matted in scabbed chunks against my scalp.
Confusion bleeds to horror, as murder
Drains its filth into my pores and psyche.
The shower runs red, faucets spit crimson;
Five cakes of soap slide off scrubbed hands and face.
My brain grows sticky, guilty, and needs sleep.
The unborn avenger should finish quick
And take my life; cover the stains with earth.
My lady, unsexed, took selfish respite.
I lived by the sword, sought gain with treason’s
Knife. Now pay my crimes with specters which haunt
Like the wild, bearded women that started
My ambition upon my damnation.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: